Black crow, feathers like midnight, eyes shiny beads of pinpricked light, watching the dead raccoon in the middle of the highway.
Morning rush hour. Constant parade of cars, back and forth, back and forth.
The carcass like money on the white line.
The crow paces, back and forth, waiting for a break in the traffic.
How badly it wants.
Afternoon rush hour.
The crow sits on top of a telephone pole. Waiting for his opportunity. Watching for thieves. Small head on a swivel, patient beyond reason.
It could have moved on, it could have eaten by now, the crow, but it wants what it wants and it will endure the busy highway until the corpse is his.
Hunger rumbles. The crow waits.
Darkness settles. Traffic lightens. The crow flies down onto the highway and feasts.
Car engines, closer, headlights, the crow leaps away with no time to spare. It hunkers in the gravel, savory taste on its tongue, waiting, dodging, snapping one stolen chunk, one at a time.
Back and forth.
Sated, almost. Slower moving. A mini-van, a startled driver, a cracked windshield, feathers drifting on the night air.
We want what we want.